


Cherry Wine

by SymphonySoldier97



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Acceptance, Cuddling, Cutting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Trigger Warning: Cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SymphonySoldier97/pseuds/SymphonySoldier97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Dean just needs to let it out, put down the load for a moment. Even if he knows Sam would disapprove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Three things: one, title is from the Hozier song for the line “blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine,” two, that whole “7 minutes off your life” bit is kinda stolen from Criminal Minds (Reid says that phrase to his mama), and three, which is most important: TRIGGER WARNING LIKE WHOA. Descriptions of self-harm/cutting.

He doesn’t do it often, honest. Only every few weeks, or when the feeling gets too strong. When his guilt is too much or the darkness just feels too close. When Dad hasn’t let him help on a hunt in a long time. It doesn’t take long, so the extra guilt of leaving Sammy in the room alone is minimal.

Dean waits until Sam’s doing something else-- engrossed in homework, in the shower, watching TV-- before he takes a knife out of his duffle and creeps outside. He stands outside the door if there’s no one there, but if he feels too out in the open, he goes around the building until he’s hidden. He’s thought about doing this in the Impala-- it would certainly be safer-- but it seems wrong to sully something as pure as his baby with something as dirty as this.

Once he feels safe, he rolls up his sleeve (always the left one, because the he doesn’t have enough dexterity with his left hand), and stares at the faint scars there. Dean takes a few deep breaths before he lets the knife slide over the inside of his forearm. Carefully, he repeats the process, clenching his fist, letting the knife glide across his skin over and over again. He’s careful not to go too deep. Lasting scars will worry Sammy.

Closing his eyes, Dean flexes and relaxes the muscles in his arm. The pain rolls through him gently, and his racing thoughts slow. He breathes deeply, scraping gently across the new cuts. Blood springs up and Dean’s careful to keep it off his sleeves. It’s not that blood on his clothes would be unusual or particularly upsetting, it’s just that he can’t take any risks. If Sammy knew...

Well, it doesn’t matter as long as Sammy doesn’t know.

When he’s done, Dean goes back inside, careful to keep the knife out of Sam’s sight on his way to the bathroom. He grabs the bar of soap already open on the sink and thoroughly cleans the wounds. He may need this to stay sane, but he’s not about to earn himself a trip to the hospital for infected self harm cuts. Dad would never forgive him for that. 

Dean looks at himself in the mirror, tamps down on the visceral reaction to criticize. It’s easier when he’s let it out. Even better if the pain comes from the hunt. If Dad lets him help and Dean gets knocked around a little, it’s enough. It gives him the peace of mind he needs. Those are the nights when Dean sleeps best. When he gets back just broken enough for Sammy to give him those loving eyes and tend to his wounds. When Sam waits until Dad is in the bathroom to kiss Dean gently and tell him how glad he is that Dean’s alive. 

These times are when Dean feels best, feels whole. But if he can’t have that, he makes do with this. Stolen moments to put down the load and focus on the pain. It’s not ideal, but it’s enough.

Once he’s cleaned up and gathered himself, he steps out and surreptitiously slips the knife back into his duffle. If Dad’s not with them, like tonight, Dean gets to sit down next to Sam, pull him close and kiss him sweetly. Sam always kisses back, even when he’s in one of those bitchy teenager moods. Usually, he’ll either crawl into Dean’s lap and keep things rolling or he’ll just go back to his homework, but tonight, something is different. 

Tonight, Sam pulls back a bit, gives Dean this calculating look that means he’s trying to figure something out. “Is everything okay?” He asks. 

Dean just nods. Sam knows him too well, if Dean were to say something, Sam would know he was lying. He gives Sam as much of a grin as he can manage and leans back in for another kiss. Sam straddles his lap, hands coming up to frame Dean’s face, thumbing gently at Dean’s cheekbones. “Hey,” He whispers, leaning back again. “Please tell me what’s wrong?” 

“It’s nothing, Sammy, honest. Now, d’you want me to suck your dick or not?” 

Sam sits back so his ass rest on Dean’s knees. “Not. I want to know what’s going on with you. Are you smoking again?” 

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Growin’ boy like you turning down a blow job? You sick or somethin?” He playfully presses the back of his hand against Sam’s forehead. 

Sam bats his hand away, frown planted firmly on his face. “We talked about the smoking. You said you’d stop, remember?” 

Dean does remember. He remembers the earnest look in Sam’s eyes when he sat Dean down on at the kitchen table at a dumpy apartment they rented in some podunk town in South Dakota, made him listen to the whole presentation Sam had prepared. Sam had handed him pamphlets, made him read statistics, and had even written “7 Minutes” on every one of his cigarettes. 

“You lose seven minutes of your life every time you smoke one of those things, Dean!” 

He’d made Dean sit there and listen to a dozen arguments before he’d pulled his trump card: “Every pack you smoke, I lose 140 minutes with you. Over two hours that I have to give up. And then, I have to watch you get cancer, and I have to watch you hurt.” 

If Dean could go back, he would slap every single cigarette out of his past self’s hand. “Goddamn it,” He’d conceded. “Fine, shit. Just quit it with the puppy eyes.” 

Sam had given him a smile brighter than the sun and thrown his arms around Dean’s neck, peppering kisses across Dean’s cheeks. 

It’s stupid, but Dean can’t tell him now that he’d gone back on his promise. He can’t take Sam thinking that Dean didn’t take Sam’s concern seriously. “Not smoking, Sammy. I swear.” He leans forward and catches Sam’s mouth with his, teasing his tongue into Sam’s mouth even though Sam’s slow to reciprocate. 

“See? Don’t taste like smoke, do I?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, trying to get a smile out of his brother. 

“Okay, then what is it? Why do you keep going out and hiding things from me?”

Dean sighs, there’s no way out of this one. He’s got to at least throw Sam a piece of the truth. “Look, sometimes I just gotta get a little air. Take a minute. you get that, right?” 

Sam stands up, a hurt look on his face. “I don’t get why you’re lying to me. If you’re not smoking, then what takes you ten minutes outside that’s so bad you can’t tell me about it?” 

Dean swallows thickly. “Sam, I-” 

“Even you can’t find girls that fast, Dean.” 

Dean gapes. “God, Sam, I am not cheating on you!” 

“Then tell me why, Dean! Tell me what you stuff in your duffle when you get back!” 

“Sam, can’t you just drop it?” Dean pleads, he’s starting to feel panic now. Sam can’t know about this. If he knows, then all the things Dean thinks about himself are true: weak, incapable, inadequate. 

Sam’s reply is quiet, “No, I can’t drop it.” 

Sam falls to his knees, rests his hands on Dean’s thighs and gives him that look. The same earnest look he gave Dean last year when he went after Dean’s cigarettes. “Something’s wrong. You’re hurt. Just please tell me why.” 

With that, Dean crumbles. He can’t hide it anymore. Sam already knows, and just like the smoking, he’s not going to let it go until he finds out what Dean’s been doing. He drops his head to hide the wetness in his eyes, silently rolls up his sleeve. “M’sorry, Sammy. M’so sorry.” 

“Oh Dean...” Sam breathes. 

Dean keeps his eyes closed tight, refuses to see the pity in his baby brother’s eyes. He feels Sam’s fingertips trailing gently over the scars. “Tell me you’ve been cleaning these.” 

Well, that wasn’t quite what Dean was expecting. He risks a look at Sam, wipes his eyes with his other hand. “Yeah, weirdo, I have.” 

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches in a little half smile. “I wish you’d just told me that you feel shitty.” 

Dean looks his brother in the eye. “Hey, Sam?” 

“Yeah?”

“I feel shitty.” 

That gets a sad smile out of Sam. “I think there are better ways to feel okay.” 

“Such as?” 

Sam dips his head to kiss the scars on Dean’s arm, his right hand massaging Dean’s thigh. “Do you need pain?”

“Pain works.” 

“It’s not healthy. We need to find out what else works.” Sam stands up, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and wrapping it around Dean’s shoulders. “Personally, I’m hoping sex helps.” 

Dean’s not quite sure what to make of this. Sam wasn’t shocked, and he didn’t have to ask why Dean does what he does. Sam’s taking care of him like he’s a kid with a cold, in the kitchen making tea (and really, where did he get tea? It’s not exactly a Winchester household staple), telling Dean to turn on a movie. 

When Sam comes back to the couch, he watches Dean take a few sips of tea before letting him set it down on the side table. “Do you wanna be the little spoon?” 

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Dude, you are seventeen years old, have some self-respect.” 

Sam shrugs. “Fine, then you’ll get what I give you.” 

Which ends up being both of them wrapped in the blanket, Dean sandwiched in between the back of the couch and Sam. Sam hold his hands around his middle, flipping through the channels and chattering about all the ways they’re going to make Dean feel better. Dean thinks that he should be humiliated, but honestly, he just feels loved. 

“We’re going to figure it out, Dean, but you gotta tell me when you feel it, okay?” 

“Okay, Sammy.” 

And maybe it’s not how Dean wanted their evening to go, but it’s better. He still feels like shit and he knows it’s not gonna change, but the idea that Sam’s in his corner somehow helps. At least he doesn’t have to hide. 

“S’gonna be okay.” Sam tells him, and for some reason, Dean believes him.


End file.
